The Tale of Sir Galahad
by keepcalmsmile
Summary: Sam once said he could never be clean like Sir Galahad. Dean assumed he was just talking about the demon blood. Turns out, Sam was talking about something else too. WARNING: Extended discussions of the aftermath of rape and childhood sexual abuse (but NO description of the actual events). Happy(ish) ending, but potentially very triggering.
**Sam:** You used to read to me, um, when I was little, I— I mean, really little, from that— from that old, uh... Classics Illustrated comic book. You remember that?

 **Dean:** No.  
 **Sam:** Knights of the Round Table. Had all of King Arthur's knights, and they were all on the quest for the Holy Grail. And I remember looking at this picture of Sir Galahad, and, and, and he was kneeling, and— and light streaming over his face, and— I remember... thinking, uh, I could never go on a quest like that. Because I'm not clean. I mean, I w— I was just a little kid. You think... maybe I knew? I mean, deep down, that— I had... demon blood in me, and about the evil of it, and that I'm— wasn't pure?

* * *

When Sam Winchester was thirty-three years old, he finally told Dean what Lucifer did to him for all those years (centuries) in the cage.

He didn't say much, honestly. The words didn't exist, and if they did, then only in a language Dean did not know and that Sam refused to speak.

"And the worst was . . . he would . . .when he . . . _raped_ me, and I would beg . . . for _anything_ else, but he would just . . ." Then Sam just looked at him, and despite being two-hundred pounds of carefully honed muscle who had recently fought God's sister and _won_ , his eyes were wide and wet and scared, so much like the little boy who used to look at Dean as if he were the sun himself. As if he could fix everything.

Dean couldn't. Couldn't even begin to try, and they both knew that. Instead, he just pulled his little brother close as Sam breathed, slowly and carefully, into his shoulder, refusing to cry.

When Sam was five years old, John Winchester met up with another hunter named Fred Welsh, and his son Scott. John liked them because Fred knew all the lore and then some on shapeshifters. Dean liked them because Scott was eighteen, and _cool_ : he could drive, and drink, and he hunted every day with his Dad, just like Dean would, eventually. Sam like them because Fred smiled and Scott told funny jokes, but mostly because Dean liked them.

When Sam was thirty-five years old, they ran into Scott again. His Dad was long gone, blaze of glory style while fighting some demons during the first apocalypse. Dean expected Sam to shift uncomfortably, like he always did when some idiot brought up that subject.

Except he didn't, and Scott's voice didn't carry a trace of bitterness. Instead, he bought them another round of beer.

It was only then Dean noticed Sam had barely touched his first.

When Sam was five years old, he stopped talking.

It was hard to tell, at first. Dean didn't really notice until one day he was a little late picking up Sam from Kindergarten. Instead of finding his brother on the jungle gym or playing tag with some of the other kids, he saw Sam crouched under a tree at the side of the playground, drawing in the mud with a stick.

"You're a weirdo," Dean said by way of greeting. Sam looked up and smiled like Dean was the whole world, but he didn't say a thing.

"You've been awfully quiet these past few weeks, Sam," John said as they left town a couple of days later, "What's going on in that brain of yours?"

"Nothin'" Sam said.

John smiled, "Well you let me know if you think of anything, alright?"

"Kay."

"Okay," John chuckled, and turned up the music.

When Sam was thirty-five years old, he told Dean for the first time in _years_ that they should back off from a hunt.

"Why?" Dean asked.

"Scott's got in under control, we might as well move on."

"Scott's going after two poltergeists solo."

"He's a good hunter. He'll be fine."

"S'not like we've never helped good hunters before, and most of them _weren't going_ solo."

" _Dean_."

Dean ignored the bitch-face. "Come on, man. You've got to give me more than that. You've got some beef with this guy? Did he not let you watch what you wanted on TV when he was babysitting you?"

"Shut up," Sam growled, suddenly taking an intense interest in his beer.

"Well, boys, I'll be seeing you bright and early tomorrow!" Scott approached the table, extending a hand to Dean.

Dean shook it, "No luck with the girl you were chatting up over there?"

"Nah," Scott smiled easily, "Not my type."

"What a shame for her," Sam said, finally looking up from his scotch and smiling in a way that generally fooled just about everyone, demon, civilian, and hunter alike.

Everyone except for Dean. He knew Sam's real smile. This was anything but that.

"Eh," Scott said, "She'll find someone else. Have a good night guys!" He smiled at Dean then patted Sam casually on the shoulder on his way out the door.

Sam flinched, fucking _flinched_ at the contact.

When Sam was five years old, he stopped eating.

Not completely, of course. He ate whatever Dean or John forced him to, with all the enthusiasm of a death row inmate.

John rolled his eyes and told him not to be a brat. Dean helped himself to the extra food.

When Sam was thirty-five years old, he left the bar around 9:30, fixing Dean with a small smile and telling him to have fun.

He hadn't met Dean's eyes the entire night.

Dean stayed another half hour, for appearances sake, before returning to the hotel to find out what the hell was wrong with his brother.

He found Sam sitting, like a statue, on the edge of his bed. His head and shoulders were slumped and his hands hung loosely off his legs, as if he didn't quite remember how to use them.

He hadn't even bothered to turn on the light.

Dean hesitated in the doorway. "Sam?"

When Sam was five years old, he started having nightmares a couple times a week.

Neither John nor Dean could figure out where they possibly could have come from, but they'd shake him awake anyway. He'd usually wake easily and crawl up next to one of them (usually Dean), before quickly falling asleep again.

John decided he might have to wait a little longer to tell Sam about hunting than he had planned.

When Sam was thirty-five years old, Dean sat next to his motionless brother on the crappy motel bed, "Dude," he said, "What's up with you?"

Silence.

"Seriously, Sam. You're freaking me out. What's wrong?"

Still nothing.

" _Sam_ ," Dean couldn't quite keep his voice calm. He touched Sam's arm.

Sam lept up like he'd been shocked, gasping for breath and trembling like . . .

Dean didn't want to think about the last time he'd seen Sam like this. Last time, Sam had been sharing headspace with . . .

Things were starting to make sense, now. Dean really, _really_ , wished they didn't.

When Sam was five years old, John left him and Dean with Scott in the motel. Fred and John were posing as Feds, so they couldn't exactly have any of their kids around.

Strangely enough, Scott didn't seem to mind.

"I never get a day off," he said, "Let's just chill."

Dean had no desire to chill. He _especially_ had no desire to chill when he saw a bunch of other kids playing in outdoor pool.

"It's cool, dude," Scott said. "Go have fun."

It was official; Scott was the awesomest person on the planet.

When Sam was thirty-five years old, he stood, pale, wide-eyed, and trembling, in the dark of the motel room.

Dean slowly rose to his feet, but his heart was racing too, and it took every ounce of self-control he had to take a deep breath and say, very, very calmly (because he couldn't upset Sam more than he apparently already had), "Sam. What's wrong?"

Sam's breath hitched, like he was trying to find a way to speak, but just . . . couldn't.

"Sam," Dean took a step closer, then another. He took a deep breathe, his head full of words like _rape,_ and _molester,_ and found he couldn't bring himself to say any of them, "What Lucifer did to you . . . was he the first one?"

It was too dark too see Sam clearly, but Dean heard his single, hitched sob, and he could imagine the tears rolling down his cheek. (Never more than one or two, Sam never let himself _really_ cry, at least not while Dean was alive).

Immediately, Dean checked to make sure his gun was loaded, and headed for the door.

He hesitated, resting his hand on the knob, "Do you want to come with me?"

He sensed, more than saw, Sam shake his head.

When Sam was five years old, he listened as Dean read to him the story of Sir Galahad.

Dean really liked the story, using different voices and mimicking the really cool parts with his hands.

Sam liked the story too. He imagined Dean was a knight in shining armor, charging down the road in a black horse (because knights didn't have Impalas), going off to find the Holy Grail.

Sam tried to imagine himself as a knight on a horse, just like Dean, but he couldn't. He couldn't even imagine himself on a slightly smaller horse next to Dean. He couldn't imagine being any kind of knight.

He could never go on a quest like Dean or Sir Galahad, because he wasn't _clean_.

Not anymore.

When Sam was thirty-five years old, Dean drove across town to the slightly less flee-bag motel.

The stupid son of a bitch had even told them where he was staying.

Dean realized he was very calm. This part was easy. This he knew how to do.

As for the rest . . .

The motel was small enough to use metal keys still. Dean picked the lock in five seconds flat.

Scott was sleeping casually on the king-sized bed, a couple of beers on the night stand, two duffles (one for clothes, one for weapons, on the floor next to him.

Dean could do it now, but he wanted Scott to know what was happening, and why.

He was judge, jury, and executioner, and his justice was swift and brutal. He had no doubt that what he was doing was right.

He flipped on the light and pointed the gun at Scott's head, "Get up!"

With true hunter reflexes, Scott shot up, reaching for his gun. Dean knocked it out of his hand. "Hands up!"

Scott obeyed, "The hell is going on here, Winchester?"

"Don't fuck around with me," Dean growled.

"Fair enough," Scott said after a long moment, "I don't suppose anything I said would change your mind?"

"No."

He nodded, as if he expected the answer, "Is it true you've been to hell, Dean Winchester?"

"Yes," Dean thought of the fire, the knives, the hooks.

It was easy to keep his hands steady on the gun pointed at Scott's head.

Scott nodded, "I figured, after all these years, after all you guys had seen, that he had forgotten. I figured, after everything else, what I did didn't even re-"

He never finished the sentence.

When Sam was five years old, Dean came back around sunset and found Sam and Scott asleep. Sam was in a t-shirt and his underwear. Dean couldn't see what Scott was wearing because most of him was covered up by the blanket. The other bed was stripped, the sheets bunched in a ball in the corner.

"Hey kid," Scott said, opening his eyes as the door shut behind Dean. Sam didn't move.

"What's going on here?" Dean said, trying to sound like dad. His voice still wasn't quite deep enough.

"Oh, I don't think Sammy's feeling so good," Scott said, "He wet the bed while he was taking a nap, so I let him climb in bed with me." Scott shook Sam gently, "Hey Sam, wake up. Dean's back."

Sam blinked slowly and sat up, "Dean!" He bounced off the bed and threw his arms around his brother. "I missed you!"

"I wasn't gone that long," Dean laughed, but he patted Sam's back anyway, "Good to see you too, Sammy."

"I'm gonna go ask the front desk for more sheets, if that's alright," Scott said, following Sam out of bed. He was dressed in a t-shirt and boxers, which was kind of weird, but Dean figured it was a non-Winchester thing. "Mind watching Sam for a little bit?"

"Sure."

"Cool," Scott picked up the pile of sheets, "And you know, maybe we should just keep Sam's little accident between the three of us. Your Dad probably wouldn't be too pleased if he found out, would he?"

Dean shook his head, "No sir, he wouldn't."

Scott smiled, "Then let's do Sam a solid and keep this our little secret."

When John and Fred got back that night—shifter caught, weeping civilians saved—they found Dean, Sam, and Scott watching football while eating slices of meat-lovers pizza.

When Sam was thirty-five years old, he sat in a dark hotel room waiting for his brother.

Dean returned a little less than an hour after he left. His slow, cautious movements were so different from his blazing, righteous anger as he left. Sam would have laughed, if he only remember how.

"Is it done?" he asked instead.

"It's done."

They stayed like that a long time: Dean standing silently at the door, watching Sam, and Sam sitting on the edge of the bed, watching his hands. At least, it felt like a long time. Sam had mostly forgotten how time worked ever since they first ran into Scott at the police station interviewing witnesses.

"Sammy . . ." Dean said eventually. His words trailed off, because really, what could he say?

"I thought he was dead," Sam said. He didn't recognize the low, dull sounds coming out of his mouth. "I'd forgotten until Lucifer . . . reminded me, and when I got out, got my soul back, I mean . . . I asked around, and he'd fallen off the grid . . . so I just figured . . ."

Dean sank slowly down on the bed, careful to keep a couple inches between himself and Sam, "None of this was your fault, Sam."

"I should have looked harder," he said, not trusting himself to look away from his hands, "I should I looked until I knew for _sure_. How many other kids has he . . ." The tears were coming now. He could feel them pooling in his eyes, and no, God no. He shouldn't cry about his, he didn't _deserve_ to cry about this.

"Sam . . . hey, hey, hey . . . Sammy, look at me. Would you please look at me, man?" Dean was careful to keep his voice low and gentle, careful not to touch his brother. It made Sam feel pathetically grateful and irrationally angry at the same time.

"Sam . . . _look at me_."

Finally, Sam obeyed. It was a little hard to make out Dean's face in the darkness, but after all this time, he didn't really need to see Dean to know what he was thinking.

"Listen to me, Sam," Dean said, "None, and I mean _none_ of this is your fault. Not what happened then, not what he might have done later. All of that, _all_ of that, is on him, and right now some demon's slicing him open on a rack to make him _pay_."

The words made sense, and, intellectually, Sam knew Dean was right, and yet, "But Dean . . ."

"Hey . . . hey, hey, hey, hey . . . it's okay." It was only then Sam realized he hadn't managed to stop the tears after all. "It's okay. I'm right here. That bastard's not going to hurt anyone ever again, and I'm here now. You're safe. You're going to be okay."

Sam wanted to run, and scream, and fight, and kill Scott again, then bring him back and kill him again, slowly, but his body couldn't remember how to do any of the things. Instead, he turned and buried his face in Dean's shoulder. Dean shifted his body, wrapped his arms around his brother, and held him as Sam cried and cried and cried.


End file.
